The Leshy
by Supporting Character
Summary: Based off trickster tales about the leshy, but not off any specific one. Russia is the leshy, portrayed as a silver-haired young man with goat horns and hooves, and Lithuania is the human he kidnaps.


_**A/N: **The leshy is portrayed in a few different ways in different myths, and I just combined some of the things I found. I apologize for any inaccuracy; I only read a couple trickster tales, and nothing about the woodland spirit part of the myths. _

_The story is from Lithuania's POV. It's somewhat vague due to being written for school._

_Constructive criticism is welcome :D Also, if you find any typos, please point them out._

* * *

I shouldn't be doing this. I've been told for my entire life - don't do this. Not alone. Not unarmed. You'll die; worse, become his. I've known those that disappeared. I've seen the broken shells of their families, the terrified children, the cowering dogs. It leaves a mark, and I don't want to leave that mark on my family.

But Feliks is sick, and my brothers are scared. They can't go, and I don't want to bother a stranger for something silly as being afraid of the Leshy. He's probably not real - just a myth, spun by old grandmothers for naive children. Silver hair and goat hooves, ridiculous.

The forest is fine so far. Dark greens frosted at the edges and a flat grey sky. I've found most of what I need, and their bloody bodies are in a sack in my hand. I feel hope; I don't think the leshy is real at all. It was fine to go alone. No one will hurt me.

I turn around, thinking maybe I'll catch something on the way back, when I see him.

He's a traveller, crouched by the roadside, coughing heavily. As I look down, I see that blood has stained the ground under him, and even under the shadow of his hood I can see the pain on his face, the pale cast to his skin, the terror in his chilled purple eyes. As much as I want to leave him there, I just can't.

"Are you okay?" I ask him, my empathy getting the better of my common sense yet again, and he looks up. His face is childlike, eyes wide. He tries to speak, coughs again, broad shoulders shaking, and he glances back up while he licks the blood from his lower lip.

"I am okay," he says, voice husky. "I am lost, though...Do you think you can lead me out of this forest?"

I breathe out and offer him my hand. "Of course. Come with me."

He reaches in his pocket and pulls a glove over his hand before he puts it in mine, leaning on me as I pull him up. He's heavy, and tall - I only come up to his shoulder - but I manage to get him righted. He stumbles, clutches my arm, and follows me as I lead him down the path.

He smiles weakly, and I smile back. "Thank you so much," he says sheepishly, still clutching my hand almost desperately. I notice his accent for the first time, and the careful way he speaks, as if making very sure I understand. "I don't know what I would have done."

"It's no trouble," I assure him, my protective instincts growing stronger by the minute. Having two younger brothers and a dependent best friend really had an effect on me. The young man was so obviously ill. I wonder if he could stay with me.

We continue this way, and he seems to relax, walking more on his own, though he breaths more heavily. Just as I begin to smell the food from the village, his eyes widen again as he gasps, and grabs my hand so hard I hear it crack. We're running suddenly, into the trees, and I trip over a log and fall into his arms. He catches me easily, suddenly not so sickly-looking, and I catch sight of what was under his hood.

He grins at me, and when he tilts his head, I see his ivory goat's horns gleam. They're notched and old, and his eyes are crazy. I try to twist out of his now-strong arms, but he holds me tight, almost hugging me to him, and he carries me to his hut. It's mossy, barely house-shaped: a pile of stones with a roof, dark and wet. He smells rotten, sweet, and it makes me gag - a living creature isn't supposed to smell so strongly of death.

The smell fogs my head, and I pant, resistance slowing. I can barely keep awake by the time he sets me on his bed, and I drift off almost immediately.

* * *

When I awake, my attitude has changed. It's a feeling of peace, of warmth and belonging. The room isn't what you'd expect of a monster: it's homey, soft. Curtains on the windows and a thick red quilt thrown over me, a stuffed rabbit. He's sitting on the bed, smiling softly, almost shyly, and he offers me fresh berries.

The smell is gone, the rot smell, and it's replaced with something pleasantly sweet. It's hard to be afraid of him now. In my mind, he isn't the enemy anymore, but I don't pity him, either. He's strong, and I admire him, and I do as he says. It feels odd, almost flat, to do these things, but the thought of returning to my village is repellant to me now. I'm serving a greater purpose here, I know it. I have to be.


End file.
